


Be Careful What You Wish For

by coveredinfeels



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Demon AU, Fade Sex is Weird, M/M, Non-Euclidean Biology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-04
Updated: 2015-11-23
Packaged: 2018-04-30 01:53:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5145899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coveredinfeels/pseuds/coveredinfeels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which a bored desire demon decides to make life more interesting by invading the territory of another.</p>
<p>It doesn't precisely go as planned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For inspiration, see these works of art:
> 
> Alphabetiful's gorgeous [desire demon Dorian](http://alphabetiful.tumblr.com/post/131882505774/playing-around-when-suddenly-desire-demon-dorian)
> 
> Chaoslindsay's superbly filthy[Desire/Rage](http://chaoslindsay.tumblr.com/post/131995912374/follow-the-link-to-look-at-an-extremely)

The thing is, demons do not scar.

Oh, he can certainly _wear_ scars, as a mortal might pick out jewellery for an evening-- he wears scars beautifully, in fact. Of course. But the essence of his nature is immutable (such a disappointment to a certain demon of Pride of his former acquaintance).

An unfortunate consequence of said immutable nature; he can only really _bleed_ if someone _wants_ him too. He discovered this in a mortal's mind, but mortals think so _small_. Insufficient.

So when the rumours come of a demon of Wrath who has become very territorial over his little patch of the Fade of late, it might as well be a red flag to a--

Well, that's the joke, you see. That's what they call it. The Bull.

* * *

He feels it the moment he steps over the boundary. This one is powerful. Angry.

How splendid.

It also greets him with a backhand that knocks him back into a wall that wasn't there a moment ago. Oh no, it's clever. He _likes_ clever.

“Get out of my territory.” it says. Dorian lets his gaze trail deliberately downwards, oldest trick in the book-- oh, not it, _he_ , definitely he. This is getting better and better.

“Please, like that's going to work.” he says. “At least threaten me a little. Make it graphic. Gratuitous, even.”

The Bull growls. “I'm not interested in playing your game.”

His next swing doesn't connect, because Dorian is clever too, and doesn't really have to be where he appears to be, or physically corporeal at all, as a matter of fact. “Then perhaps next time, avoid manifesting such a deliciously large cock, my sweet.”

For he is sweet-- Rage is a simple-minded beast, pure instinct, and it is the simplest thing imaginable to take that instinct, all focused on him, and just turn it aside, just a little, to his own ends.

Oh, The Bull _wants_. He's sipped honey-wine from the lips of dreaming kings, but this-- this is a sweetness rich and new.

And then, without warning, it is gone.

* * *

Shouldn't have mentioned the cock.

Desire can be subtle bastards, especially the powerful ones. Even here, in The Bull's domain, the power of this one seeps and slithers into every place it can find, seeking to coax and control.

Well, he can have everything he likes, except the control. The moment he realises he's far enough gone that his form is changing is the moment he is able to pull himself back from the brink.

The Bull is no beast of Rage to be so manipulated; he is Wrath, and he can be a subtle bastard, too. So he lets the lust take him, for a moment, and feeds it back, watches his little interloper grow drunk on it, thinking he's won, and then just at that moment, snatches it away from him again.

Binding him in place, here in The Bull's own domain, is as easy as thought. “You know,” he says, conversationally, waiting for his guest to figure it out, “I've heard that the more powerful the Desire, the more difficult it is for them to ever truly be satisfied. Supping on mortal lusts not doing it for you anymore?”

Desire bares his teeth at him, testing his bonds; lunges, for a moment slipping out of _human_ into something more reptilian. It gives him a little more range, and sharper teeth, and is really not any less pretty than the form he first turned up in, but it's not going to work. Not here. Maybe on neutral ground, he'd have a fighting chance. After a moment more, the scare of being bound by another demon seems to fade, replaced by the more-or-less human façade-- the one with the atypical facial hair and the typical (for Desire, at least) smirk. “Bondage games? How frightfully dull.”

“Can I ask why your form defaults to having a moustache?” The Bull asks, because the Fear fades, but the Anger remains, a very nice little simmer. When he reaches out to stroke said decoration, just the head goes _reptile_ again, and nearly takes what are currently his fingers off. Precious. “Good! I like that energy. Stoke those fires, big guy.”

Desire goes quiet for a moment, although that's a bluff. The Bull can feel his power reaching out, pushing and pulling, trying to work out why he can't feel the power he aroused. “How?” he asks, finally.

“Been around a while. You learn things.” He takes himself in hand, lets himself feel it, sees the body bound before him arch in response. “Look at you. You're hungrier than Hunger itself. Don't worry, I'm going to fill you up.” Hard to take on Desire this strong and keep in control, but The Bull is capable of it.

And really, however you look at it, The Bull is all about giving people what they need. Always has been, no matter what his name has been. Of late, mostly what they need is to cut loose and kill a lot of people, granted. That doesn't mean he's forgotten all his older tricks entirely.

What Desire needs is a feast. He can do that, but he'll do it his way. So when Desire spits at him, “You're all talk.” he smiles in answer, sharp-toothed.

“You got a name?”

“Dorian.” Desire says, sulkily. “And you're 'The Bull'.”

Oh, he's definitely _here_ on purpose. “That's one of them, sure. Like I said, been around a while, learnt a few things. Mortals, you see, they'll believe an illusion. They only need to _think_ you're enjoying it. Me, I can do this—”

He lets the Desire in, lets it fill him-- shapes it, to his own nature, to give Dorian what it is he truly needs. Which, as it happens, is to give The Bull what he _wants_. Oh, and he does want it-- to see that form shake, blur around the edges with the force of the Desire that The Bull feeds him with-- and not even a touch needed.

With difficulty, he stops. Control is still his, yet. “ _No!_.” Dorian snarls, form shifting swift enough that keeping his bindings intact becomes problematic-- lovely little rush of frustration to go with it, teasing this one is so much _fun_.

“What can I say, I'm a traditionalist.” The Bull says, looking over Dorian's current form. There are horns, which fade in and out, probably the influence of The Bull's own preferred shape, and wings that beat angrily against the nothingness holding them. His feet cannot decide whether they are booted in wyvern skin, or actually the feet of a wyvern. “Come now, nice human form. Something that can take me, but not easily. I'd like to see you struggle a bit.”

“You think I will just _obey_?”

“Think you will if you want a chance to ride this cock.” The Bull says, and watches, and waits.

* * *

Infuriating _beast_. He has not felt this well-fed in _centuries_ , and yet entirely unsatiated, as if The Bull has only managed, so far, to awake in him as yet undiscovered levels of need.

And now he would like to make it a game, _the unfortunate mage and the demon_ , perhaps, and Dorian would break these bonds and walk away, if The Bull wasn't radiating genuine desire at _I'd like to see you struggle a bit_.

Granted, the first part of that plan might be a _little_ bit of an issue, as strong as The Bull is on his own turf, but it is his own choice that has him taking the time to coalesce into one of the human forms he likes to use to start off with when it comes to easily spooked prey. Handsome, well-groomed. There is, of course, a moustache. Moustaches are _dashing_.

It is not a slight form, by human standards, but compared to the monstrous form The Bull wears, something along the lines of a Qunari as envisioned by a madman, it feels all too vulnerable. Especially when The Bull's next move is to release him from the constraints upon his movement, only to tighten the constraints upon his _form_ , effectively trapping him within the nearest he will get to flesh within the Fade itself.

Not a trick just anybody could manage. What _is_ he? Not mere, mindless Rage, certainly. Wrath, they named him, but is there something more? Vengeance? Command, corrupted?

There is little point in thinking on it. A physical form means physical sensation, physical _pain_. He should be thinking, instead, how to get away before he finds out exactly how The Bull intends to use this against him.

But the Bull is quicker, in his unconstrained form; catches him, runs a hand over his new-made body, curious, needlessly cautious with his claws. Shakes them away from one hand, in fact, the better to press into Dorian's body with seeking, many-jointed fingers.

The way is already slicked, which means that the Bull desires it so; does not desire, at least, to hurt him this way. No, wait-- a physical form means physical sensation, physical _pleasure_.

That had not occurred to him, before the sensation catches him up. And when he voices it, helpless, The Bull's desire rises in response. Swiftly, the Fade reforms around them, something like a throne for The Bull-- he'd tease him for Pride, if he had a moment to do anything but _need_.

Instead, he straddles The Bull. This is a familiar dance; a popular conceit, for whatever reason. Men always like the thought that he should struggle with their size, although normally it is no more than an act. A way to flatter them, the better to sup on their paltry, unimaginative Desire.

This feels different. He sinks onto The Bull, and it takes an aeon-- each hard-won inch a century, each long moment he feels The Bull's Desire rise, fed by his own pleasure, which in turn can only be spurred on to greater heights, to be wanted so, by a will so strong.

It burns up through him, that Desire. He can no longer be contained by the form The Bull has willed on him-- horns curl, wings bloom, he kisses The Bull with a mouth of fangs and fire--

And wakes, just outside The Bull's territory, confused and satiated and _angry_ and--

He looks down, confused. That is pain, something he has known only by proxy until now. Long thin lines, across a hip, where he does not even remember The Bull's claws catching.

The thing is, demons do not scar.

And now it seems he _can_ , and he is torn between ripping The Bull to shreds, and demanding he do it again.

* * *

The Bull's fury rattles through the Fade. A dozen men will wake from dreams with the strength to seek the vengeance they deserve; two dozen more filled with mere nameless anger, to be turned to what purpose, he does not even care.

And still, it remains, that unfamiliar hunger.

Well, _shit_.

* * *

Spirits and demons are merely reflections of the waking world. There is no Rage, no Pride, no Desire except that which is born in the minds of mortals.

Once, there might have been one who strove to protect, channelling his rage. Once, there might have been one who sought love, beyond mere desire.

The better parts so quickly drain away, though, in the shattered-mirror gaze of the Fade. And when something forms from whatever it is that remains-- how is it to know what it was and might have been?


	2. Chapter 2

He goes hunting.

Weaker spirits are born all the time, wisps of thought circling around dreams. If they do not learn better, swiftly, they will either spend a long existence as mere minions of something stronger, or a much shorter one as _prey_.

As far as The Bull is concerned, minions are for Pride, and other such fools. He has always fought alone. No need for any strength that is not his own, no need to seek connections that will only end broken (this thought rings like an echo, of battlefield death, but he ignores it).

So he hunts. He does the weak a favour by ending them swiftly. And when these petty things no longer dare to enter his domain, he goes to seek them. There are great swathes of neutral ground; it is a long way to the nearest being of any challenge to him.

He does not expect to be hunted. Few would dare-- except, of course, lest he forget, he's recently met one inhabitant of the Fade who is apparently nothing but _daring_. He doesn't consider it a possibility. Desire is not the sort to attack head on.

Except this one does. No warning-- only the feeling of a tail whipping out, taking him in the back of the knee, knocking him off balance-- and then something halfway between serpent and dragon pinning him down and trying to strangle him.

He has no lungs, of course, but that doesn't stop the instincts, echoes of the World beyond the Fade, from telling him he really needs to get those claws off his neck. Then he realises the peculiar, familiar feel of the power, and really, what sort of fool would fight back against Desire with force?

Dorian is the one who left this strange hunger in his belly, after all-- perhaps he'd like it back.

* * *

At first, he just wants to catch The Bull by surprise, take his revenge for daring to do something like _mark_ Dorian-- those scars remain, on every form he takes, and with them a pulsing, low-level Rage he is certain is not his own.

To this end, he is straddling the Bull's chest, claws on his throat, wondering if he should just slash as many times as he can and see if any of them _stick_ , when he feels a surge of pure Desire that has him shifting back into something approximately humanoid out of pure surprise.

His claws stay against the Bull's throat, though. He's not stupid. And none of the usual games are possible without him moving away from his current position, offering The Bull an opening.

He'd like to reiterate it. He's not _stupid_.

Ah, but there was that pretty, filthy-minded human recently who had been so very enamoured of a shape rather like this, wasn't there? Particularly the _tail_. He spares a little of his will to reshape it to something rather less aimed at tearing someone apart, and rather more towards-- well, having them come apart at the seams in a more pleasurable fashion.

He lets it curl around him, into The Bull's line of sight. “I've had a thought.”

Of course, he fully expects The Bull to refuse; even the suggestion is intended as an insult. The human had a taste for debasement, which Dorian had quite happily provided; The Bull cannot be expected to submit to another demon in this fashion. His own submissions last time around were _barely_ acceptable, if only for the quality of the feast he received in return.

The Bull only grins, challenging, and the Desire strengthens. “You underestimate what I can take, Dorian.”

His own reaction to that is-- embarrassing, frankly. “We'll see.” he says, and pettily, lets his tail snap back without giving so much as a warning.

But he finds The Bull ready for him; open and wanting as some weak-willed human mage, waltzing into his traps as if they don't know what's waiting for them. The Bull must know, surely, but yet he does not even give Dorian this small victory-- to resist, that Dorian might seduce him, might demonstrate his mastery of his own nature, might prove that Desire can win over Rage.

Instead, The Bull is _gleefully_ complaint, loose-limbed, welcoming, and grins as if he knows exactly what this is doing to Dorian. “You're pretty as a human, but I think I like this form better. It's more you.”

His claws are still by The Bull's throat; he anchors himself with them into The Bull's shoulders, as a reminder who is in charge. It is still him. It is still _him_ , no matter how The Bull's body reforms itself with each thrust, as if trying to match him more perfectly. “Was that your bumbling attempt at a compliment? Please leave flattery to the experts.”

Dark blood pools under his claws, but The Bull doesn't seem to mind. If anything, it feels like he's rather enjoying it. _Rage_. Typical.

“Nothing to stop you riding me while you're doing that.” The Bull says, conversationally. When Dorian refuses to rise to that bait, he adds, “You can ride any part you like.” and illustrates his meaning by letting his tongue slide out, thick and serpentine, and wrapping it around Dorian's wrist.

Desire rises in him, followed swiftly by his recently acquired Rage, and when The Bull reels his tongue back in Dorian rakes claws across his cheek in response, lines that sadly will no doubt fade in moments. “You are _not_ in charge here.”

“Mmm.” The Bull says, something like agreement. “Just making the offer. Not seeing what part of you sitting on my face while you fuck me with your tail would not involve you being in charge, personally--”

“Be _quiet_.” Dorian says, although he is now of course imagining it. It might even shut him up for a little while. Not that one really needs a mouth to speak, but it can be hard to remember that when one's current mouth is otherwise occupied.

He doesn't know what's stopping him, really. If The Bull wants such a thing, for whatever reason, then Dorian is just indulging him. Just using him. That is his nature, after all-- whyever would he hesitate?

* * *

Oh, there's definitely a bit of Desire driving his actions right now, but pissing Dorian off? Those little spikes of Rage every time Bull refuses to play into his game by playing along with it-- those are just the _sweetest_.

Plus, now that he's got a little Desire in him (pun fully intended), it's becoming much easier to figure out how this game goes while still feeling like he's in control. It's like he can read it off Dorian – a long history of filthy desires, of what people want but only dare whisper of in dreams.

That would explain why, as Dorian shifts forward to settle over his face, snarling something vicious and pretty about what will happen if he feels any teeth, he feels a strange sense of familiarity. An echo of taste-- the richness of his skin, which ought to be outside his ken. The sort of dreams that call The Bull to inhabit them rarely dwell on any taste beyond that of blood.

He matches Dorian's movements, letting the shape of his 'tongue' thicken with each motion. A fight and then a fuck – their natures do make for a good combination. Especially when this is a fight all of their own-- Dorian's power presses heavily on him, _desire me, desire me_ , and it makes The Bull's form sing the way that only battle should.

“What,” a unfamiliar, oily voice says, “Is _this_?”

Dorian does not pause in his motions. “Busy. Go away, Erimond.”

As he does not sound too concerned, and what The Bull can feel is a Fear demon not nearly a match for even him alone, yet alone two of them together, he decides to leave it to Dorian to handle. 

“I have claimed this territory.” the oily voice says. “You will cease defiling it.”

“Oh, _will_ I, now?” Dorian responds. There's an edge in his voice. It makes The Bull want to fuck him till he screams. “That's an interesting theory. I'd like to see you prove it.”

Cold, and furious, and _lovely_. The Bull licks deeper into him, feeding the Desire, fuelling the Rage. His, and Dorian's, and the blended parts between.

Desire tears his release from him, and uses it to cut Fear in _two_.

* * *

Desire teases, and coaxes, and convinces.

Desire does not _destroy_.

He didn't know it could feel this good. He doesn't want to know. He wanted distraction, not this-- _complication_.

The Bull sits up, stretching needlessly. Licking his lips, as if he can _taste_.

“Stop that.”

“Why so _angry_?” The Bull says. “Here I was wondering if was something you did, if it was only me. If it goes both ways-- hmm, there's possibilities.”

There are _not_. “I'm not interested in any possibility that involves further association with _you_.”

“Just saying, if you want to explore this some more, my door's always open.”

“What _door_?”

“You'll find it.” The Bull says, with a smirk. “If you want to.”

* * *

The Bull really has no idea why he said that. Shit, now he has to make a door.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm so very sorry


End file.
